Home Plate

Where hot dogs dance

In 1948 a young couple said, 'we can do it much better' and they did

August 04, 2011|By Jennifer Day, Special to the Tribune

It's lunchtime in July, and traffic is starting to clog the Superdawg drive-in. Cars — several with out-of-state plates — creep through the aisles, scouting for empty spaces. Speakers squawk, confirming orders for Superdawgs and Whoopercheesies.

The guys in the next car are home from college, planning a trip to the beach. A few stalls over, a little girl sits atop a white convertible and practices her best royal wave. Meanwhile, a Superdawg employee tries to jump-start a stalled Lexus.

Watching over all this are two giant hot dogs perched on Superdawg's roof: a muscle-flaunting, leopard-skin-leotard-clad hot dog named Maurie and his blushing, blue-skirted sweetheart, Flaurie. Go at night to see them wink at each another. Or, go on a Saturday afternoon to talk to the real Flaurie — 85-year-old Flaurie Berman, who opened Superdawg with her husband, Maurie Berman, in 1948.

"Hiya, thanks for stopping," Flaurie says over the crackly speaker system. "Can I take your order?"

Wearing a black Superdawg polo shirt and a pair of white nursing shoes, Flaurie works inside a glassed-in booth that Maurie designed to look like an air traffic control tower. An old photo of Flaurie and Maurie — they think it was taken sometime before 1943, when Maurie went to fight in World War II — is taped to the side of the desk.

Flaurie swivels in her chair, waving at cars between orders. Her foot taps out a rhythm on the pedal intercom system as she greets customers in a strong, clear voice — the voice of a schoolteacher, says her son and Superdawg co-owner Scott Berman.

In 1948, Flaurie worked as a primary school teacher while Maurie studied accounting at Northwestern University and worked with his dad. The couple ate hot dogs from street carts run by former GIs, Maurie said, and it occurred to him late one night that he and Flaurie could open their own hot-dog stand during the summer when school was closed.

"None of the hot-dog stands were as satisfying as what we remembered from our high school days," Maurie said. "I said, 'Dammit, we can do it much better.'"

Maurie woke the next morning and dreamed up Superdawg. He says he designed the original 20-foot-by-12-foot building, which was expanded after the Bermans decided in 1950 to open the drive-in year-round. He drew up plans for a triangular steam table that would allow three cooks to easily reach hot dogs, fries and all the necessary fixings.

The couple searched for a location, settling on a plot at the end of the streetcar line, on Milwaukee Avenue at Devon Avenue. The area was still mostly undeveloped, Flaurie says, but they chose it because it was near Whealan Pool and a forest preserve. In the early days, the stand attracted children, Flaurie says, because the adults going to the forest preserve brought picnics with them.

"We made a business out of really nothing," Flaurie says. "We had a lot of kids during the day. They'd come up to the window and say, 'Lady, what can you get for a dime?'"

Maurie didn't like the way most stands wrapped their hot dogs in butcher paper "like an old piece of salami," he says, so he designed a snazzy cardboard box and still uses nearly the same copy today: "Your Superdawg lounges inside contentedly cushioned in Superfries."

The thank-you note printed on the lip of the box reflects the Bermans' charming blend of corniness and gratitude: "From the bottom of my pure beef heart … thanks for giving me the chance to serve you!" When the drive-in speakers were installed, Maurie branded those, too, calling the service "Carhop in a Wire."

And then there were the two, 12-foot hot dogs on the roof, which also started, as Flaurie says, as "a figment of Maurie's imagination." The chicken-wire and papier-mache originals that went up in 1948 are still buried underneath the fiberglass forms that now stand atop the building, Scott Berman says.

The statues are secured by columns that run through the building and into the ground—which beats the old method of keeping the statues in place. Scott says he remembers going up on the roof when he was in his 20s to secure the hot dogs with guy wires during storms. Did he worry about getting electrocuted?

"I didn't even think about that," he says. "We had to save the dogs."

The real Superdawg, the one you can order for $5.25, is a fine example of a Chicago hot dog. It comes tucked into a properly steamed poppy-seed bun and topped with mustard, onion, piccalilli, a pickled tomato wedge, a whole dill pickle and — if you please — a hot pepper.

It's a meaty, tangy mess that's worth risking a little pickle juice on the steering wheel. Crinkle-cut fries — made daily from whole potatoes using a hand-operated machine — are the perfect foil for the Superdawg: a sidekick that threatens to upstage the hero of the meal.

Although the Superdawg recipe hasn't changed since Maurie and Flaurie invented it, the restaurant is now a multigenerational affair with six family owners and a second location in Wheeling.

"We're like a dinosaur," says Don Drucker, a Superdawg co-owner who is married to the Bermans' daughter, Lisa Drucker.

"No, we're still here," says Lisa, another co-owner. "The dinosaurs are gone."